


He which hath no stomach to this fight

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Confederate AU, F/M, Gen, Gifts, Jed as who the heck knows, Mary as Underground Railroad conductor, Slow Burn, Temperance, guests - Freeform, the Greens' party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 07:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16635797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: In an ordinary time, he knew he would never have been invited to such a gathering. It was truly an extraordinary time.





	He which hath no stomach to this fight

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [wish not one man more](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16579682) by [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells). 



He’d scoured the shelves of his shop, picking out the wine-jellies the ladies favored but also the rare raspberry pastilles he’d gotten in from Lyon before the blockade, the dusty bottle of port his father had put aside for some ideal celebration, a cask of pickled quail eggs, and a few, precious vanilla beans sunk in a sack of white sugar, whiter than the infrequent January snow. He’d packed it all in a basket, tucked up with a checked cloth, tied a red ribbon to the handle and carried it in his two arms to keep from disturbing the contents, the whole two mile walk to the Greens’ homestead. They liked to call it a plantation, Seven Elms, though there were not seven grand trees on the acreage, let alone elms. He was dusty by the time he arrived but the gift he brought was pristine, the bow as delicately furled as it had been when he tied it, when the basket sat on the long, bare counter of his store. He didn’t expect much from Mrs. Green, she was known for her superior attitude. Even pretty Mrs. Stringfellow, fooling no one with her silk shawl, had only given him a brief nod, as if bringing the most expensive, treasured items from his store was beneath her notice. He didn’t care. He wasn’t looking at their faces, indifferent to him as cattle could be, all big dark empty eyes and simpers.

“Oh, Mr. Squivers! How clever of you! How kind and generous! I haven’t had a treat like this in an age!” Mrs. von Olnhausen cried, clapping her white hands together. Her dress was a drab monstrosity, even he could see that, but how lovely she was! She was the kindest woman he knew, the most desirable, the least attainable. He basked, nonetheless, in her approval.

“Port—haven’t had a glass worth the name in a month of Sundays!” Captain Foster said, clapping him on the back, not so hard he’d lose his balance. “Mr. Percival Squivers, you are a man worth making the acquaintance of! On behalf of the Confederacy, Jeff Davis and General Lee, I salute you! And I hope you’ll pour me a glass!” The man’s words were all congratulation though there was something in them of the knife, perhaps a remnant of his time on the battlefield. Percival saw how Mrs. von Olnhausen’s watched him, taking his measure as she was wont to do but with some unusual warmth, a fondness there could be no reason for. 

“It’s the least I can do for the Cause!” Percival said stoutly, fishing the bottle out. He did not see how Mary turned her face away, nor how Jed Foster’s right hand became a fist, white across the knuckles. 

“Let me help you,” Mrs. von Olnhausen offered, taking the bottle from him carefully. “I’ll find two glasses and be back for a toast.”

“Only two?” Captain Foster asked, raising an eyebrow. “Seems a fine vintage to forgo. You’re for temperance then?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. von Olnhausen said. Percival had seen her drink a pale gold sherry with evident delight and she’d taken Mrs. Brannan’s rum toddy when she’d had the ague last autumn, like any sensible soul. Percival thought three glasses would be difficult to manage to carry without spilling the port—they would be so for him. He wouldn’t say anything, determined not to cause her any trouble.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for Percival Squivers, bearing gifts, missing the point, snarking on the Greens to himself. And for building tension between Jed and Mary and thinking about what Percival Squivers's store would keep in stock. This one is fairly close to being a convention drabble, clocking in around 500 words, give or take (okay, who am I kidding, give).
> 
> Title from Henry V.


End file.
